


the smell of turpentine in the morning

by bloodandcream



Series: Ship all the Ships [107]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Awkwardness, Blow Jobs, Exhibitionism, FedEx driver Dean, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Masturbation, Mirror Sex, Nude Modeling, reclusive artist Cain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-24 15:38:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6158419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodandcream/pseuds/bloodandcream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Dean gets to the porch of the house, this old guy is usually waiting for him with a sketchbook, sometimes knitting, sometimes he’s got scrap pieces of glass and metal spread out on a work table. There are wind chimes made out of broken things and bent spoons lining the porch.<br/>The stuff in his yard isn’t red neck scrap, it’s some kind of weird art statement crap.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the smell of turpentine in the morning

Dean’s seen a lot of things in his time as a FedEx driver. There’s the standard mean dogs snapping at his heel on the end of a tight leash, the old ladies in barely closed robes with curlers in their hair, the shifty eyed guys who snatch their packages and sign off hastily before slamming the door in his face. Then there’s the even weirder things. This one guy Dean delivered to a few times always answered his door in a Superman costume.

But he has never come across anyone as weird as the hermit who lives out in the boonies on Willow Lane and orders packages every few weeks or so. The guy lives in a small bungalow house down a long dirt lane that’s so rutted Dean has to park halfway up and walk the rest of the way or he’ll ruin his truck. The yard, to some, would be considered littered with red neck junk that’s scattered among high weeds. There’s a row of claw foot tubs with viney plants spilling out of them. These creepy skeletal metal sculpture things with long spindly limbs in hunched and twisted positions that give Dean the heebs. In the middle of the field surrounded by nothing is a massive structure of sheet metal and pallets that glimmers in the sun.

When Dean gets to the porch of the house, this old guy is usually waiting for him with a sketchbook, sometimes knitting, sometimes he’s got scrap pieces of glass and metal spread out on a work table. There are wind chimes made out of broken things and bent spoons lining the porch.

The stuff in his yard isn’t red neck scrap, it’s some kind of weird art statement crap.

Dean knows that there’s been a few other people at FedEx that have picked up routes out here, but it doesn’t seem like any one person delivers here regularly even though the guy has frequently got packages. He grumbles quietly when he signs the form and takes his stuff. Sometimes he looks at Dean with this intense stare that raises his hackles, taking him in from toe to head, and Dean tries not to balk.

It’s uncomfortable, to put it nicely.

Actually, it’s fucking creepy but Dean’s not afraid of the reclusive nutjob so he keeps the route and gets in some good exercise hiking up the long drive. As the summer wears on, dusty and dry hot under a cloudless sky, Dean is tempted to tell Bobby to find someone else to do the route.  


The old guy is sitting on his porch drawing a little potted plant when Dean comes up behind him with another deliver one day. The floor boards of the wooden porch creak, sagging a little in the middle, but the guy doesn’t turn around yet. Dean coughs. The guy keeps on sketching.

“Dude, I just need your signature.”

Dean’s sweating so hard he can feel it trickle down his back, and even though the shade of the porch is fucking awesome, he’d rather make his delivery and get on with it. The guy twists around on his low, simple wood stool and blinks at Dean. Rubbing the back of his hand over his forehead to keep the sweat from stinging in his eyes, Dean slouches a little and holds out the clipboard.

“Would you like something to drink?”

“Excuse me?”

“Water? It’s very hot today.”

Dean doesn’t think he’s heard the guy talk so much at once. It’s a tempting offer, but he’s not going to accept anything from someone he doesn’t know. He’s got a water bottle in the truck. Even if it’s probably boiling hot by now.

“Nah, thanks. Just need your signature.”

The guy stands, hands on his hips, and he’s just a little taller than Dean. Licking his lips, Dean waves the clipboard impatiently and it’s finally taken, signed, passed back and Dean can hand over the heavy box he’s got propped on his hip.

Another day, another delivery made.

-

The uncomfortable waiting and staring gets worse. Dean’s used to people staring. His shorts are a little tight. He’s hot, he gets it. It’s usually women that stare at him, batt their eyelashes, sometimes guys who give him sly smiles. He’s more than welcoming of both, at a bar or pretty much wherever as long as it’s not work. This guy, Cain if his signature is actually his name, doesn’t try to flirt or feed him pick up lines, just stares.

Dean almost gives up on a scorching day that’s got to be above a hundred degrees when Cain has a sweating pitcher of ice tea with lemon rings floating in it sitting on his work table scattered with sketches and he pushes a glass towards Dean.

“Buddy, just take my package –”  


One bushy eyebrow cocks up -  


“- your package! –”  


The guy’s fucking smirking at him –

“Would you just take the fucking package and let me do my job!”

Dean leaves without any ice tea, the stare against his back making his neck prickle as he hikes down the dusty rutted lane, sculptures gleaming bright under the sun.

-

“Would you let me draw you?”

The question comes out of nowhere.

“Excuse me?”

“I would give you compensation, of course.”

Dean still had his hands occupied with a heavy box and his clipboard. “I’m sorry, you wanna pay me to pose naked for you? No thanks, buddy.”

The assessing blue stare raked down his dusty, sweaty body and back up again, and Dean could swear the asshole was amused. “I didn’t say I wanted you to pose nude. But if you’re offering.”

“No I’m not offering! Just sign for your damn package.”

Humming, Cain accepted the clipboard and signed in his graceful, compact script, holding on to it to ask another question. “What’s your name?”

“I don’t have to tell you.”

Cain pointed to his chest, “It’s embroidered on your uniform.”

Dean set the guy’s box down on the porch and snatched the clip board. “Then why are you asking?”

“I want to hear you say it.”

“My own name?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Humor an old man.”

Dean had his clipboard back. The package was delivered. Wind chimes tinkled in a slight breeze that only made Dean feel sticky for how sweaty he was. Cain’s fingers were stained with colors, nubs of bright colored sticks scattered on his work table among pictures of birds. Dean shifted from one foot to another.

“My name is Dean.”

Cain held out his hand, and Dean shook it. “I’m Cain.”

“I know.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Buddy, you need to get out more.”

-

Punching his time card, Dean was ready to head out and get his weekend started. He was thinking about heading down to ‘Leather and Spurs’ on main street, finding a hook up was a guarantee there. Someone big and burly that could throw him around a little… Dean was distracted enough he almost ran into Bobby, whose face was buried in a sheaf of papers.

“Watch it, y’idjit.”

“Sorry Bobby.”

Dean backed up, and paused. “Hey, Bobby, you know that old guy, Cain, on Willow Lane?”

Bobby peered up from his papers, looked like scheduling stuff. “Yeah?”

Shrugging self-consciously Dean tried to act casual, “Just curious. What’s his deal?”

“Sometimes we have pretty regular deliveries to him, sometimes there’ll be months without one. A lot of people ask to be taken off the route, sometimes he demands a new driver. Why? You gettin’ on his nerve, boy?”

“Hey, who said I was doing anything wrong?” Scuffing his boot against the floor, Dean asked, “Why, did he ask to have me stop delivering?”

Bobby snorted. “No. What are you getting up to, Dean?”

“Nothing.”

Bobby rolled his eyes and shuffled off with his face buried in his papers mumbling to himself. Dean definitely wasn’t considering it. But if he was considering it, he wouldn’t be able to deliver the guy if he wanted to… pursue anything. He wasn’t gonna ask Bobby to take him off the route though, because he definitely wasn’t considering it. Nothing was being pursued. Nope.

-

 **D:** I’ll check in by ten. You still got the address?

 **S:** I have it saved. Grace period?

 **D:** Yeah, eleven at the latest

 **S:** Ok be safe

 **D:** Yes mom

 **S:** Shut it

 **D:** Thanks

 **S:** No problem

 **S:** Call in the morning?

 **D:** Will do

-

Dean was an idiot. This was the kind of set up of like, Lifetime movies where someone gets chopped into little pieces or chained in a cellar or some shit. It was a mild Tuesday evening, and the rutted lane was no better for his Baby than for his delivery truck, so he parked at the end and made his way up. It was still bright out at six, animals rustling in the brush of the field, pebbles crunching under his heavy boots. Instead of his uniform, Dean was at ease in ripped jeans and a faded tee. He’d tied his plaid over shirt around his waist, already sweating even though his hair hadn’t even dried yet from the shower he took after his shift ended.

There was tight knot of something in his gut, anticipation maybe, a little bit of paranoia, mostly curiosity. Because Dean was an idiot.

Cain was on the porch when Dean got close enough to see and he wondered if the guy ever did anything else but sit out there. As soon as Dean was stepping on the creaky stairs, Cain set down his pencil and stood.

“Hello, Dean. I’m glad you came.”

“What can I say, I go for tall, dark and mysterious.” Winking, Dean followed Cain into the house, crafts and stacks of sketch paper and supplies on every surface. “So do you actually sell a lot of this stuff?”

Cain led him through a cluttered living room and a tidy kitchen to a back porch that was screened in, even more supplies crammed into the space. “I sell enough to get by.”

Past the screens, there was a huge garden plot and beyond that a large barn with white weathered walls. The wood floor under his boots was scuffed and stained, paintings lining and stacked several deep against the back wall of the porch, shelves of paints and brushes and sponges and notebooks lining one wall of screens. There was a low, long couch against the screens towards the back, draped with a pale blue sheet.

Dean took it in, and the guy was actually pretty good at what he did. Some of the paintings Dean saw were hyper realistic, bouquets of flowers or idyllic country scenes, while others were… more interpretive. Yeah, he had no idea what some of the splotchy thick painted ones were supposed to be.

Cain cut into his thoughts, “Please make yourself comfortable,” and gestured at the couch.

Dean shrugged off his jacket and toed out of his boots, “This the part where I get naked?”

Cain was focused on rummaging through a pencil pot of dark charcoal sticks. “If you’d like to.”

Rocking back and forth on his heels, Dean thumbed at the button on his jeans. “I got nothing to be ashamed of. I am totally not Kate Winslet though.”

Settling on a stool in front of the couch, Cain studied him as he peeled off his clothes. Dean plopped down on the couch, bowed legs in a comfortable sprawl as he slung one arm over the back. “So how do you want me?”

“Sit however you like.”

Cain was already busy sketching, his long hair pulled back in a ponytail, a few strands fallen over his face, one arm curled around a sketch book and the other making fast little jabs of strokes as Dean settled himself down. It was exciting in the way being watched during sex was, being photographed or filmed. Yeah, Dean had done that a few times before. He was a good looking guy, it’d be a shame to say no to a pretty woman who just wanted a souvenir.

It was more than that though. Dean didn’t usually think of himself as a vain guy. But it was nice to be appreciated sometimes. To leave such an impression someone wanted to keep it with them, make it last. The focused attention as Cain looked between him and the sketch pad, staring, assessing, it was palpable against Dean’s skin making the fine hairs prick up as he flushed hot.

Cain was a little older than Dean usually went for. Really fucking weird. He was totally into the ‘mysterious’ thing though, and pretty much everything about the reclusive artist was guesswork. There were lines under his eyes and his hair was peppered with gray. There was something about the way he looked at Dean, the way his hands moved rapid and sure, that it wasn’t too long into sitting for him that Dean had to will down his interest so he wouldn’t pop a boner sitting on the guys couch for the first time.

Maybe they could do that later.

-

Dean idly watched a bunny munching on the plants in Cain’s garden as he kept his position still stretched along the comfortable couch on the back porch. The sun was warm on his skin, eyelids drooping against it’s glare, one arm folded up behind his head while the other rested across his bare belly. Dean was the kind of guy that was usually in constant motion. Working, socializing, working more. He did repairs around his apartment even though they had a maintenance guy for the building, worked on his Baby, spent time out with his friends and Sam, pulled long shifts at work. And he liked it, he enjoyed being busy.

This was different. Spending a whole hour being still. Just lounging while Cain drew him. He could soak up the sun and watch the bunnies, and it usually ended with him napping.

“Touch yourself for me.”

Dean snapped out of his hazy day dream at that smooth, deep voice. Cain was staring at him, pencil poised over his notebook, eyes mischievous.

“Huh?”

“I said, I’d like you to touch yourself for me Dean.”

Dean was caught off guard, a little zing of heat tingling down his spine. He looked down his lap and saw his hard cock tapping against his belly. Shit. He didn’t mean to do that. Shifting his hips, Dean curled over towards the edge of the couch and watched Cain.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

Lazily, he stroked one hand across his belly and up over his chest, flicking at his nipples and watching as Cain held his gaze for a beat before flipping to a new page in his sketch book and scribbling furiously. Dean bit his lip and let one foot fall to the floor so he was splayed wide open as he dragged his hand down his stomach and scratched blunt nails over his thigh. There was something hypnotic about being watched by Cain, hands in a flurry over his work, a few loose curls framing his face and bare feet jittering on the wood floor.

Sitting up on the couch to face full forward, Dean folded one leg up to prop his foot on the edge with the other wide, cupped his balls in one hand and loosely gripped his cock in the other. Cain flipped to another page. He could scrawl page after page of loose rough sketches while Dean stretched and lazed on the couch, or spend an hour keeping Dean perfectly still to create a detailed likeness.  


Right now, as Dean moved, Cain kept flipping pages and working frantically, eyes darting from page to Dean and back again. His cock twitched in his hand, skin prickling from the attention like Cain was actually touching him. God did Dean want him to. He’d spent enough hours fixated on Cain’s hands, long fingers almost spindly like the sculptures in his yard, skin splotchy with charcoals and pastels, shirt sleeves rolled up and the muscles of his forearm rippling

Shit, Dean had it bad.

Tugging gently at the loose skin of his sac, Dean squeezed his fist around the head of his cock and stroked down one tight pull before he opened his palm and spit in it. There was the rustling of papers and the scratch of a pencil but Dean swore he could hear Cain’s breath hitch a little faster.

Jacking his cock slow with one hand Dean brought the other up to his mouth and sucked two fingers in. Cain flipped to another page. Dean held the pose for a few beats, sucking on his fingers and squeezing his cock, one leg propped up and the other wide, getting his fingers wet as he watched Cain’s hand flying over the page. Shifting again, he pulled his other foot up to prop on the edge of the couch, legs bent up and spread wide, scooting so his ass hanged off a little and he could curl over himself and get one spit wet finger into his hole.

Yeah, he could hear Cain breathing a little rougher.

Smirking, Dean worked one digit inside, tight and dragging but it wasn’t too much of a stretch without lube. Still working his cock with a little more force, rubbing his thumb over the head and pressing against the glans, Dean sunk his one finger into his ass till it bottomed out. Pressing and massaging around the rim with his other fingers, Dean couldn’t get deep enough to find his prostate with just one but the stimulation at the sensitive rim ratcheted up his arousal higher as he jerked his cock faster, spitting in his hand one more time, wet sound of it loud in the summer hot shade of the porch as Cain sketched.

He didn’t even think about holding back, Dean made sure it wasn’t a minute jerk but he was sweating in the heat and itching under Cain’s gaze. Pressing the tip of a second finger just inside his rim, gut clenching at the taut ache, Dean grunted and twisted his hand around the head of his cock gripping tight, toes curling and head strained back as he squeezed his eyes shut and came messy against his belly.

Letting his feet drop to the floor, pulling his fingers out but stroking his spent cock wet with his own come, Dean sighed and molded into the curve of the couch. Opening his eyes again, he realized he didn’t hear Cain drawing anymore. The other man was watching intently, curled over his sketchbook, pencil rolling away from him dropped on the floor.

Dean pushed up, raised his hand to lick his own come off himself and watched Cain’s eyes widen, gestured to him. “Come here.”

Dropping his sketchbook to the floor, thick heavy dark lines across the page, Cain rose and stepped up to the edge of the couch. His cock was a hard line in his jeans. Dean pushed up the edge of his shirt, skin warm and darkly haired, tanned. Kissing at the spot between his navel and the waist of his jeans, Dean looped an arm around his waist as Cain sunk a hand into his hair.

“Beautiful boy.”

Rubbing his nose against Cain’s belly, Dean popped the button on his jeans and unzipped them, dragging them down firm thighs. Cain was thick and ruddy and uncut. Holy shit. Foreskin drawing back stretched around the head peeking out red, dripping pre come, Dean lapped at the slit and wrapped his lips around it. Cain grunted and curled a hand against the shape of Dean’s skull, fingers of the other tracing his lips and jaw line.

Looking up at him where Dean perched on the couch, he wanted to rip all Cain’s clothes off and take his time but he’d spent more than a few masturbation sessions thinking about it and he was really too goddam impatient with Cain’s thumb in the corner of his mouth encouraging him to open wider, take more. Tongue sliding over his bottom teeth and along the underside of that cock, spit trickling out and Dean was still buck naked spattered with his own come as he hummed contentedly and sucked it into his mouth.

Cain thrust shallowly, a gentle nudge, girth stretching Dean’s lips wide and he tasted heady. Getting both hands on Cain’s ass, Dean pulled him forward, kneading into firm skin and bobbing further down. Cain cradled his jaw, rocked into his mouth, shuddered under Dean’s hands as he pulled back to slide his tongue under the foreskin and swirl around the head. Pulling out, Cain gripped Dean’s hair and held him still, one hand stripping his cock and Dean kept his jaw hanging open knowing what was coming as he watched Cain. Hot wet splash across his cheeks, straight in his mouth salty and bitter, dripping down his chin, Cain came on his face and Dean shivered for craving more.

-

“So you really like this guy huh?”

Dean chewed his food obnoxiously louder and answered open mouthed before swallowing, “Yeah, I like him.”

Sam bitch faced at him across the diner table. “I’m serious, man. Haven’t seen you for Friday night pool for like, several weeks.”

Slurping down coke, Dean did actually feel kind of bad about that. “Sorry Sammy, promise I’ll make it next time.”

Sam crunched his salad, “No, hey it’s cool. I just don’t really know anything about him. Like. Are you guys dating?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Not really. I don’t know.”

“Is it serious?”

“What, you want me to bring him home so you can approve of him, Samantha?”

“Don’t be a jerk. I do want to meet him, though. Hey, you could bring him to the bar Friday, we could all play pool together.”

That actually sounded like a lot of fun. “I don’t think he really gets out much. Kind of a hermit.”

“Then maybe you’ll be good for him.”

Shrugging, Dean shook more salt on his fries and munched, swatting Sam’s hand away when he made an attempt to steal a few.

“I think you’d get along with him Sam, he does weird art stuff. Like, a lot of paintings but these freaky sculpture things too.”

Sam beamed at him. “That’s really neat. I bet Cas’d hit it off with him, bring him out for us to meet him.”

“I’ll see if he wants to, no promises.”

-

Dean sinks down, thighs spread wide and burning from the strain, letting his head loll back against Cain’s shoulder as he holds on to the strong arm wrapped around his waist. Cain’s other hand is languidly stroking his cock, not quite enough pressure to get off as he holds Dean still on his lap, thick cock buried deep and Dean’s squirming.

“Look at yourself.”

Groaning, Dean blinks sweat out of his eyes and rolls his head into the crook of Cain’s neck. That rough calloused palm drags down and squeezes his balls.

“Look.”

Swaying forward, Dean blinks. Across from the foot of the bed a stand alone mirror, tall and framed by intricately carved wood, reflects the two of them back. Dean’s flushed red down his chest, dripping sweat, straining cock in Cain’s hand and his hard muscled thighs quivering as Cain holds him still. Blue eyes over his shoulder, long soft hair loose, beard brushing against Dean’s neck and his cheeks. Those talented fucking hands caressing over his belly until he can’t control his shivering.

“Good boy.”

Dean whimpers. “Fuck me, please.”

Cain finally starts it up again, sliding out to the tip before snapping his hips to sink deep and the stretch is blissful. Dean can’t help swearing, biting his lip, rolling his hips down to grind onto Cain. Hands sweep down his sides, grip onto his hips and Cain hauls him up and starts fucking him in earnest. Dean was already sobbing and begging by the time Cain had licked him open and loose, tortured him with a mouth and only two fingers until Dean was near incoherent. Fucking sadist.

Then he wouldn’t let Dean fuck himself raw on that cock, Cain had to hold him up, make him look, make him see. Dean loved other people watching him, but seeing himself like this. It was different.

He’d fucked hot women in front of mirrors, in cheap motels with mirrored ceilings, over bathroom sinks before. So he could sink in to their sweet wet pussies from behind and still watch their bouncing tits and how their mouths fell open when he screwed in at the perfect angle, how they trembled and blushed and fuck but he loved looking.

That was him, now, bouncing on Cain’s cock with those hands guiding him all on display, dick swaying and his soft belly rolling as he swiveled his hips down. Lips bit swollen and spit shiny, freckles spattered across tanned chest, his tan lines disappearing after spending most of the summer naked around Cain’s private property. Dean slid a hand down and cupped his balls and dick, pulling them high and holding them against his body so he could look. Legs spread wide, body leaned back against Cain’s broad chest, Dean could see Cain’s thick cock thrusting up into him.

Oh god he liked looking. Watching. Cain smirked in the mirror and turned his head to bite into Dean’s neck, dragging teeth down to the curve of his shoulder as Dean jerked and strove to keep up the pace. Stroking his cock in one hand and reaching the other up and behind to get a fist in Cain’s hair, hold him close to Dean’s neck, breath a hot shiver sinking into his skin and down his spine, blunt nails anchored around his waist pulling, shifting, hot hard cock swelling inside him and spilling wet and Dean was gasping through his orgasm.

Watching himself in the mirror the whole time.

-

With a groan, Dean curled onto his side and tugged the sheets down with his feet. Yawning and stretching, it was too goddam bright out. His ass was pleasantly sore and his muscles ached; it felt awesome. Swatting at the clock on the night stand, Dean huffed indignantly to find it was barely six am. Cain needed some better fucking curtains because this flimsy gossamer shit didn’t block out jack.

Rolling back over, Dean groused at the empty other side of the bed.

By now he found himself spending one or two nights a week at Cain’s house. It was just more convenient to roll over and sleep after getting fucking stupid than to have to put himself together and leave. Cain didn’t have any problems with it. And as much as Dean found himself entrenching in Cain’s quiet, private life, he had managed to at least drag the older man out for pool a few times. Sam and Cas got along well with him. Dean hadn’t been at the house during the visit, but apparently Cas had come out to take a look at Cain’s work.

Things were pretty awesome. Which was weird. It was getting into autumn and Dean hadn’t spent this much time with a partner for a long while. Cain was pretty laid back though, gave Dean plenty of space, and amazing blow jobs.

Grunting and scrubbing his eyes, Dean decided he wasn’t going to fall back asleep anytime soon. Padding to the bathroom, pissing and washing his hands and face and belly still flaked with dried come, Dean made his way downstairs naked. There were no neighbors to see through the windows and it was kind of liberating to just wander around without any clothes on. Plus, Cain liked to show his appreciation for that in very physical ways.

Dean knew where to find the old man, through the kitchen on the screened in back porch. Cain was hunched in the corner overlooking the gardens painting carefully on a large canvas propped on an easel. He’d dragged a table over, the top littered with tubes of paint that were squeezed out on plastic dishes with little grooves, tiny metal trowels left in mixed mounds of color, paint brushes propped up in jars and the smell of turpentine solution hit Dean’s nose sharply. No wonder the guy was a fucking nut job, huffing that all day.

Making sure to make noise as he shuffled over, Dean brushed his fingers through soft gray peppered hair and tucked a messy lock behind Cain’s ear. There was a used paint brush resting wedged on top of the other. His beard was smattered with paint smears. Dean had watched him work enough times that he knew Cain would paint with one color on one brush and hold the handle in his mouth to pick up a second and put one behind his ear and lose track of them.

On the canvas in front of him was a figure that looked kind of like Dean only twisted into long spindly limbs stretched across the canvas and surrounded by wispy stark lines of vivd reds and oranges. Kinda gave off a creepy vibe.

“Hey,” Dean scratched the back of Cain’s neck, “You even come to bed last night?”

A lot of nights, Cain might linger in bed to touch and kiss for a while but Dean could feel the mattress shift as his weight lifted, leaving just as Dean was on the cusp of sleep.

Cain shook his head.

“Man, you gotta get sleep. And eat. Did you have breakfast?”

Cain paused his work and turned fierce blue eyes on him, not tired looking at all, “I’ve spent years in creative drought, when I have inspiration I don’t question it, I work.”

“Yeah, well, you’ll drop if you don’t at least eat something.”

Cain glared and turned back to his canvas.

Dean went back to the kitchen. Pulled the plain greek yogurt out of Cain’s fridge and scooped a big serving into a cheerful yellow ceramic bowl. Scooping granola on top and even bothering to drizzle a little honey over it to tempt Cain into eating the whole thing, Dean grabbed a glass to fill at the sink tap as well. He couldn’t believe that he managed to get himself involved with a granola eating hippy. There better be bacon for him in the fridge today.

Carrying the bowl and glass back out to Cain, Dean carefully nudged a palette of paint aside and set the food on the table.

“Eat.”

Making a few more careful strokes, Cain clucked his tongue at Dean but put his brushes down. Satisfied, Dean turned back into the kitchen, a soft ‘thank you’ following him. There was no bacon in the fridge, but biscuits were still in a bowl on the table covered by a towel from dinner yesterday. So Dean made butter-greasy fried eggs and piled them on a few biscuits, grabbing a book before joining Cain on the porch again.

There were a lot of things he didn’t ask the guy. About the weird scar in the inside of his arm, or why there was still a wedding picture of a very young Cain and a very pretty woman sitting on the mantle, or what was in the locked attic. Dean felt it wasn’t his place to ask, everyone had the right to a few secrets. There was plenty of stuff he wasn’t telling Cain, like his police record or his stint in rehab.

Quietly sitting on the porch together, Cain turned from his painting to sketch Dean reading after empty plates had been set to the side and the sound of a pencil rasping over paper was soothingly familiar. Dean figured if he watched hard enough he’d see what he needed to know.


End file.
